The archer continued his journey up the mountainside, hunting now and careful. He could hear a thrush, its song muffled by the inexorably woven forest. It called twice and went silent. Other sounds floated the mountains air. Squirrels called near and far, mapping their territory for others to heed. A crow straight-lined toward some distant point. The archer could hear the whistle of each wing thrust as it passed directly over his head just above the forest canopy. He thought he heard a coyote bark. An owl made one last assertion of its intent as the day broadened. It was still cool as the morning waned and a steady air continued to fall off the slope. Finally it brightened considerably under the crowned cathedral of aspen, spruce and fir. The breeze stalled, then reversed, pushing into the archers back. A few moments later it reversed again to cool his open shirt. But relief was brief. The air current traveled up slope again. Then again the breeze stalled. And again it fell away down the slope. This capricious back and forth game went on for an hour or more, first fanning the archer as he worked up slope, stalling, then turning on its heel to carry his scent ahead. How far he could only guess. He kept to the shadow sides of the slope as he climbed. It was cooler here and in this way he postponed the moment when the air current made one final back and forth jig before abandoning any pretense of uncertainty. The air now carried its warning of the archers approach steadily up hill. It was not to be avoided, at least not this time. He resigned himself with measured pace, knowing any elk would wind him well before he could approach near enough for a shot. Still, he kept his eyes ahead, hopeful. By noon he had reached the place where he planned to make a simple camp with his daughter when they returned to hunt later next week.
The place he had chosen was near good water. A seep slowly pulsed up from a small rock knee that ended a short but almost vertical ridge above it. Here was a natural bench, one side lodge pole and open with a good flat. The other side was a small stand of aspen. Columbines sang their song among the patch of greened black earth that was the seeps bounty. He especially liked this. The small area was a beautiful diorama, like so many others found on the mountain, but in some way unique and of only itself. As they all were unique even in their sameness.
He rested for a good while before taking a green cord from his pack. He tied onto its end a small knot of limb and threw this with its leader over a high branch on one of the lodgepoles. He removed the knot and replaced it with a canvas of dried foods and drink mix. He retrieved the cords other end until the bag was suspended a good 15 feet or more above the ground and clear of any nearby trees that could hold a bear. He tied this off as high as he could reach, wrapping the cord around the trunk three times, then a simple trapped loop under one wrap. This loop end he took care to secure with a half hitch. Satisfied, he then carried over a flat stone to use as the under surface for their small brass stove. This he placed on top of a small berm. It would be a fireless camp, but he saw no virtue in a cold one.
The archer had done all he had come to do. The camp was but a small distance below the high top of Bull Mountain and an easy hike into the Monarchs territory. There was plenty of day left and the archer checked his tackle. He pulled his favorite arrow from the quiver and again checked the edge of its broad head. The arrow fletching seemed to vibrate as if it crowned something alive and the archer could believe it was alive deep and away in this primordial forest. He placed the arrow neatly back into the bow quiver. He was ready. He shouldered his pack. His bow rested lightly in his off hand, string up. The archer walked forward slowly and the forest swallowed him. Only the canvas bag and the flat rock remained to mark his recent presence...
Topic: The Monarch of Bull Mountain --DONE!-- (Read 10136 times)
